the way to the heart
by dasseinhundin
Summary: "I'm Link. Midna called in a favor I owe her, so it looks like I'll be your chef for a while." He quirks a brow, and judging by his expression Zelda can only guess her own. "Although judging by the looks of things, I guess she didn't tell you." [TP chef au. In which Zelda is overworked and underfed, Link makes a mean fish stew, and Midna is literally the best wingman ever]


**A/N: So I'm starting yet** _ **another**_ **AU fic when I've got another literal million ones unfinished. I am the actual worst. In other news, please take this load of ridiculous banter and fluff. In other-other news, BOTW looks amazing and mark my words, Link** _ **will**_ **be cooking apples at some point.**

 **Standard disclaimer applies.**

* * *

 **i. apéritif**

 _n. (french): an alcoholic beverage taken before a meal to stimulate the appetite_

* * *

"Okay, out of the goodness of my heart, I cannot allow this to continue anymore. This has _got_ to stop."

Zelda squints. She dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin before smoothing it back down across her lap. "And what, pray tell, needs to stop exactly?" She asks, smoothing out the linen's wrinkles.

" _This!_ " Midna exclaims, waving her hands towards Zelda's lunch. For the life of her she cannot figure out what about her caesar salad has the redhead so distraught, but her publicist remains stubbornly exasperated. The woman reaches across Zelda's desk and plucks a piece of chicken off of her plate, and holds it close enough to her face that Zelda has to cross her eyes to see it. "What even _is_ this?"

"It's chicken," She responds cooly, swatting her hand away.

Midna purses her rouge-painted lips, dangling it between her thumb and index finger as if it were a piece of trash. "It's _charcoal._ "

"It's grilled!" Zelda defends haughtily.

"Correction, it could _start_ a grill." Midna deadpans, dropping it back on top of her salad. "What have I told you about using a stove?"

Zelda frowns. "Midna, I am twenty-seven. I can use a stove if I so desire."

Her friend snorts, crossing her arms as she leans back into her plush leather chair. "You know what _I_ desire? To not have to set up a press conference to announce that the Vice President of Harkinian Industries has died due to self-induced food poisoning."

"I can cook!" Zelda says irritably.

She takes a bite of her salad for emphasis, but blanches at the charred taste. The first time Zelda had tried to prepare her lunch for today the meat had been all but raw in the center; perhaps in her caution she may have overdone it a little. But Zelda is a prideful woman and she refuses to allow any semblance of distaste show on her face as she chews. When she swallows, it goes down like gravel.

"See?" She says, trying to ignore the sudden, uncomfortable sensation of a rock settling in her stomach. "Delicious."

Midna raises a perfectly sculpted brow in skepticism. She reaches her open palm out, flexing her fingers. "Give me the fork."

Zelda straightens in her seat, cheeks colored with something she refuses to call embarrassment. "Why?"

"Give me the fork, Zelda. Don't make me use my hands."

Zelda narrows her eyes at Midna's smug grin as she pushes her tupperware bowl past a stack of paperwork and into the woman's waiting hands. She stabs it down into the salad and sniffs it experimentally before taking a bite. She chews it twice with a grimace before immediately spitting the food out into a nearby napkin. She reaches for her water and chugs.

"Goddesses, and you _swallowed_ it!" She exclaims with disgust.

Zelda frowns. "It's not _that_ bad," She says, reaching for her food. Midna snatches the bowl away from her. She thins her lips as she watches her drop the bowl into the wastebasket to the side of her desk. "Excuse you, that was my _lunch_."

"That's not the kind of tone you should use with someone who just saved your life. Now come on, we're going out to get something edible." Midna says, standing up. When Zelda makes no motion to follow, she turns back with a look of incredulity. "Oh come on, you _cannot_ be mad at me for throwing away something that I'm pretty sure can out-rank a diamond on the Mohs scale. If it makes you feel any better, I can get us in somewhere I _know_ you'll like."

Zelda purses her lips as Midna waggles her eyebrows. "Come on, they've got the best pumpkin soup this side of Hyrule."

"Fine," She concedes, albeit begrudgingly. "But if this isn't the best pumpkin soup I've ever had, you're out of a job."

* * *

Zelda takes a small sip of her soup and as much as it kills her to admit it, her publicist was right. The soup is the perfect blend of creaminess and spice, with a touch of cinnamon but still deliciously savory. Her expression must give her away, because Midna's grin is irritating.

"So I take it I still have a job, then?"

Zelda purses her lips and ignores her in favor of taking another sip of her soup and eyeing the decor. They're seated in a small booth at the far back corner of the café, nestled next to an ancient looking jukebox and a tall, creaky-looking bookshelf that is filled to the brim with secondhand books. The dining room is no bigger than her office, packed tight with mismatched tables and wooden stools, but there are plants on every windowsill and dangling from every beam, and the air is thick with the rich, inviting smell of coffee and baked goods. On the far side of the room are a couple of cushy armchairs and a quaint, rustic-looking fireplace that crackles with a fire.

"I've never even heard of this place before. How on Earth did you find it?"

Midna shrugs, stirring around the leaves of her salad with a fork. "I've got a good friend who works here. It's kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but the food is amazing and I get it at a discount, so I'm here pretty often."

Hole-in-the-wall isn't the way Zelda would necessarily describe the restaurant. It was small and a bit worn, but worn in the way that a favorite jacket or a much-loved book was. Every inch of the tiny café is packed with warmth, and it makes Zelda almost regret having to go back to the chaos of her office. She takes another spoonful of her soup, humming thoughtfully.

"I should get a carton of this soup to bring home for dinner tonight." Zelda muses.

Midna grins. "I'll see if I can't arrange something."

"Don't abuse your connections, just let me order the soup."

"No, no!" Midna says, waving a hand as the waitress bounds over, a young girl with short blonde hair, and hands her the check. "Ah, thanks a million, Ilia. Is the bumpkin in the kitchen today?"

"Yeah," The girl says with a grin, cupid bow lips quirking up as if the two are sharing in a private joke. "Though last time I was back there I caught him sleeping in the stock room on his break."

"Figures, the lazy bum. Can I pop back there and see him real quick before we head out?"

"I don't see why not," The blonde says, collecting Midna's card and the bill. "The lunch rush is over, so it should be pretty quiet for the next few hours."

"Perfect," Midna says, and when Ilia walks away, she turns her attention back to Zelda.

"I could've paid for mine," She insists with a frown.

"Yeah, yeah. Get me next time. Why don't you head back to the office? I'm gonna go chat up the chef of our lovely meal and call in a favor."

"A favor?" Zelda deadpans, raising a brow skeptically.

Midna waves a hand at her. "I helped him out a while back with this whole mess involving a dog and this priceless antique mirror, _long_ story—but to make it short, he owes me. So if you just pick up a couple of bottles of wine, I'll take care of dinner tonight. You said you wanted some of that soup, didn't you?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of buying a quart to go, not exploiting the poor chef."

Midna scoffs. "He should be so lucky. Now get going, you've got a meeting with the investors in about twenty minutes."

* * *

As much as Zelda hates to admit it, knowing that Midna is taking care of dinner is a welcomed relief from the chaotic mess of a day that followed lunchtime. After mountains of paperwork and the several stressful meetings regarding the tremulous future of her father's empire, nothing sounds better than kicking off her heels and pouring a glass of wine.

 _Or three,_ Zelda thinks with a grimace as she makes her way into the elevator of her apartment building. She nods politely at the elevator attendant who tips his hat and closes the gate behind her, shifting her shopping bag to her other hip. As the elevator slowly climbs to the top floor, she lists off what she still needs to have done for tomorrow. When the elevator doors swing open into her private entrance hall, she bids the attendant a good night and reaches into her purse for her keys.

Upon entering the dimmed foyer, the first thing Zelda notices is that her kitchen light is on. Assuming her publicist had just let herself in, she rolls her eyes and follows the clatter of pots and pans down the hall. She's about halfway to her kitchen when she smells it.

It's a tantalizing mixture of herbs and a hint of nuttiness, so very different from the usual perfume of burnt meals and reheated leftovers. Zelda inhales deeply, the warm smell wrapping around her like a quilt. It brings her back to early winter mornings in her childhood where she'd awaken to the smell of her mother's cuckoo soup simmering on the stove, rich and wonderful.

"That smells divine, Midna." Zelda sighs, walking into the kitchen as she kicks off her heels in the hall. She freezes at the sight of a broad pair of shoulders and a mop of dirty blonde hair perched over her kitchen island. The man straightens and turns around, and when their eyes meet all Zelda thinks is _blue_.

"Well I'm no Midna, but I'll take the compliment." He grins, wiping his hands off on his apron before extending it towards her to shake. "You must be Zelda."

"I must be," Zelda replies, a little stunned. She shakes his hand and is surprised to notice that it's calloused. "Forgive me, and you are?"

"I'm Link. Midna called in a favor I owe her, so it looks like I'll be your chef for a while." He quirks a brow, and judging by his expression Zelda can only guess her own. "Although judging by the looks of things, I guess she didn't tell you."

"It may have slipped her mind," Zelda says before his previous words register. "Forgive me if I misheard you, but did you say that you'd be my chef for ' _a while_ '?"

Link nods. "Sure did. Midna mentioned that you've been having a rough time at work and figured you could use one less thing to worry about. So she called me up and asked if I'd take care of your cooking for the next month or so until things calm down a bit."

"I see," Zelda replies, polite if not a little stiff. She shifts the bag in her hands again, trying to juggle both the bottles of wine and the idea of how odd this situation is.

Immediately the man's attention snaps to her movements and he reaches out to take the bag in a small show of chivalry, setting it down beside his ( _her_ ) chopping board. Zelda is still perplexed at how nonchalant her—guest? Employee? Trespasser?—seems, watching him turn back to dicing carrots with ease. She shakes her head as he says something about wine and milk-based dishes, and clears her throat.

"Yes, ah, Mr…?"

"Link," He offers with a cheerful southern drawl, shooting her a broad grin over his shoulder. "And there's no need for the 'Mr.'."

"Right," Zelda says, straightening her back. "If you would excuse me for a moment."

"Of course." Link says, picking up the carrots and dumping them into the simmering pot on the stove. "Dinner will be ready in about 15 minutes."

Zelda thanks him before making a calm, if not hasty, retreat to her bedroom before locking herself in her en suite bathroom. Digging her phone out of her pocket, she dials Midna's number with furious speed. It dials for all of a minute before the familiar lilt of her publicist's voice graces her ears.

" _Can I help you?"_

"Please explain to me why I came home to find a _stranger_ in my kitchen." She says through gritted teeth. "Because I am not at all pleased about this."

" _So I take it you've met Link."_ Midna says. _"Cute, right?"_

Zelda can practically hear her grinning. She clenches her jaw, rubbing her temples.

"I haven't noticed," Zelda says, tone ice. "I was more preoccupied with the fact that there was a _stranger_ _in my home._ "

Midna scoffs. " _He's hardly a stranger._ " She says. " _We've been good friends for years."_

"Well he is a stranger to _me_ , and I do not appreciate that you just let him in and _left_ him here!"

" _Forgive me for trying to spare your gastrointestinal tract from the trauma of your next attempt at cooking,"_ Midna drawls. _"Listen, if it makes you feel better, I can be there in like, fifteen minutes. But I promise you, Link is literally one of the best guys I know. That, and I'm pretty sure it's also impossible not to fall in love with the dumb hick after tasting his pumpkin pie."_

"I don't care if his pumpkin pie tastes like ambrosia, I want him out of my house!"

" _First of all, you live in an apartment. Second of all, if you want him gone so badly, just ask him to leave."_

Zelda purses her lips in irritation. "Fine, I will."

Midna clicks her tongue in annoyance on the other line. _"This is the last time I ever try and help you out. Don't come crying to me when you die of salmonella."_

She hangs up on her cackling publicist instead of justifying Midna with a response, squaring her shoulders the way she does right before walking into a board meeting before swinging open her bathroom door and trudging her way back to the kitchen. The young man, Link, is in the same place she left him; bent over a pot of a delicious smelling stew that he stirs at a meticulous pace.

"There you are," He says brightly, perking up as she pads back into the kitchen. "Dinner's almost done."

"Ah," She says, tile floor cold on her stocking-clad feet. Despite having shed her heels, she still has nearly three inches on the man. "About that. I believe that we need to have a talk, Mr. Link—"

He turns to her, pointing his ( _her_ ) wooden spoon at her in mock sternness. "Now Miss Zelda, I told you there's no need for any of that formal stuff."

Zelda blinks in surprise at the teasing twinkle in his eyes, and despite the fact that she had been about to ask him to leave, her immediate response is a dumb, "—but you just called me ' _Miss'_."

Link pauses for a moment before bursting into a hearty chuckle, the rumble as rich and warm as the smells wafting through the air. "I suppose I did. Forgive me, then. I guess it's true what they say: You can take the boy out of Ordon, but you can't take the Ordon out of the boy."

"You're from Ordon?" She asks, curiosity piqued despite herself. She should probably be a little more alarmed that there is for all intents and purposes a stranger in her home, but his presence feels like a candle in her quiet apartment: bright and warm and casting light in all directions.

"Yes ma'am, born and raised. Though I've been travelling since I was about seventeen. Came to Castle Town a few years back and started and I've been working at Telma's ever since. Pardon, where'd you keep your bowls?"

"To the left of the stove, but that's unimportant because I must insist—"

Link already has two bowls out and set down next to the simmering pot before Zelda can finish her sentence. "No, _I_ insist. You go sit on down at the island right there while I fix you up a bowl. Go on, get settled."

Zelda bristles as she sits, confused as to how he seems more at ease in her own kitchen than _she_ does. He's talking to her like she is the guest and not the other way around and while she knows that it is entirely within her right to kick him out, for some reason she feels guilty for even trying to do so. She doesn't know whether to do it quickly, like ripping off a bandage, to try and be polite about it to spare the obviously sweet man his feelings, or to curse Midna to hell and back for putting her in this situation in the first place.

"This is a dish I picked up from a couple of friends I met when I was climbing Snowpeak. A really nice older couple, though it took me _ages_ to convince Yeta to tell me the recipe." Link says, startling her from her thoughts as he places the bowl in front of her with a soft _clink_. "Lots of people think the secret's in the seasonings, but it's all in what kind of fish you use."

Zelda looks down into the steaming bowl of what she now realizes is fish chowder and nearly blushes at how her stomach rumbles at the mere scent of it. She watches as he pulls up a stool on the other side of the counter as if he's been here all his life and puts his elbows on the counter. It's nearly impossible to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth with the way he's smiling at her.

"Go on and try it," He urges. "Let me know what you think. Gotta admit, I'm still tweaking the recipe."

Zelda likes to pride herself on being a good judge of character. It's given her a sharp, invaluable edge in the cutthroat world of business, and kept her safe on more than one occasion. She considers the man before her, green thermal sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sandy blonde hair dripping into his eyes like straw. Everything about his posture seems genuine and eager to please, and for all that she tries, she cannot sense a single vibe of malicious intent or spot any sign of ulterior motives.

Plus, the soup smells delicious.

So it is with a bout of uncommon faith that she dips in her spoon and tries it. Her brows shoot to her hairline.

Link seems pleased by her reaction, but jumps when he realizes, "I forgot the bread!" He rushes over to the counter and begins to slice a fresh loaf for her. "Oh," He calls from over his shoulder, "You said you wanted us to talk about something, didn't you?"

" _Oh_ —yes." Zelda says, snapping out of her shock. After a pause and another decisive bite of her food she asks him, "What are your hours?"


End file.
